


Cover Me

by jemejem



Series: Andreil Week 2k19 [3]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: M/M, Meet-Cute, Scars, Tattoo Parlour AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 22:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19732828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemejem/pseuds/jemejem
Summary: Neil wants to cover his father's work with something more artistic. Andrew just so happens to work well on scars.(Yes the title is from Rent and yes I love that musical.)





	Cover Me

“Andy!” Nicky yelled. “Customer!” 

Andrew grunted, throwing his legs over the couch and standing up. His change in meds from court-mandated to antidepressants had him feeling lethargic and woozy. His hand never faltered with his customers — the paying ones, that is — but his headspace wasn’t feeling it lately. 

He ambled out into the foyer. 

“What.” 

Nicky gave him that stern look. “Customer. Consultation. You don’t have a booking for another 15 minutes.”

“I could have a break.” He argued, like he hadn’t been napping on the couch for the past half hour. Nicky’s gaze flattened.

“I could come back another day.” Came the voice, standing timid in the corner. There was no one else in the shop: Aaron was off on some conference for educated fuckers, pretending that no one would glare at his tattoos and judge him off the bat. 

Andrew looked at the man and immediately back-pedalled. 

“No.” He said. “It’s fine. Come in.”

_Fucking hell, I’m pathetic._

He sat by the tattoo chair, gesturing for the man to hop up. “Name?” 

“Neil Josten.” He said quietly. “Andrew Minyard, isn’t it?”

“Most don’t care who the artist is.”

“Some do.” He offered. He had the most decadent red curls, and a terrifyingly blue set of eyes. Jaw bones, cheek bones, collarbones visible beneath the hideous grey shirt. And those scars. Cuts across one, burns across another. Andrew itched to draw him. What was his story?

Andrew put his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his interwined fingers. “What can I do for you, Neil?”

“I know it may not seem like it.” He began. “But I have both the money and the pain tolerance for the task. I want to cover my scars.”

Andrew pointed to his own face. 

“No.” Neil said, then hesitated. “The ones under my shirt. I—they’re not pretty. And I figured I’d try and—I don’t know. Make peace with them. Through this.” He fisted the shirt in his hand. 

“I’m no therapist.” Andrew said flatly. “If you want to talk through your problems, Renee’s the artist for that."

“No.” Neil shook his head. “I heard you’re—more experienced. You’ll do anything.”

"Nothing racist.” Andrew said. “Nothing bigoted. I will not tattoo anything with extremist ties.”

“No—I just meant the scars themselves. You’ll tattoo over them, won’t you?”

He opened his hands with a curious raise to one eyebrow. “Let's see my canvas, then.”

Neil swallowed, standing carefully, and drawing his shirt over his head. 

What a canvas it was. He steeled his face into neutrality, refusing to show any judgement. It looked horrific: Painful, stretched, some worn through with time, others red with infancy. His muscle structure was lean and etched beneath the grievous marks. 

Neil was looking at him with an assessing gaze, looking for any red flags. 

“Any ideas for me to work with, Pollock?” 

Neil’s eyebrow rose. “Pollock?”

“No inch of canvas left untouched, but the real artwork was in the multi-dimensionality.”

Neil flushed at the obvious compliment. Andrew didn't hand out very many: It was a gratifying response. “I have a few ideas.”

He drew out his sketchpad and got to work. 

*

Neil’s presence became more comforting than not, way too quickly for Andrew’s liking. He had no clue where the money was coming from, and he never asked, but it seemed he had friends in higher places: A Porsche would often roll up and sweep him from the sidewalk, her blonde ponytail swinging and heels clicking on the downtown concrete. The rich like her didn’t dare slum it in Columbia’s shit-sector, Palmetto. The car itself was just asking to be keyed. 

The car pulled up again today, as Andrew waltzed out into the lobby of the shop, where Renee was refilling the receipt machine, which was never truly necessary. If they didn't pay in cash, they didn’t care about the receipt. She was mildly distracted by Neil's escort, who leaned on the door of her car and picked at blood-red acrylic nails. She wore jean overalls, with a sheer lace top beneath. Andrew could understand the aesthetic appeal, even if his type was vastly different. 

“Don’t be creepy.” Andrew muttered, ringing Neil up. Andrew had already insisted that Neil payed some sort of bulk, rather than the full-price. Maybe it was just the glitter in his eye. Maybe the amount of skin Neil was having tattooed would have emptied anyone’s wallet. 

“Like you can talk.” Renee poked her tongue out at him. “Where’s your most recent project?” 

“Dressing.” Andrew mumbled. Renee wiggled her eyebrows, so he gave her a light shove. “Speaking of, I wanted to try something on him, but I’m not sure it’ll work. Can I try it out?”

Renee smiled. “Of course. After the store closes.” 

Renee had designated her left leg to his experiments. They always turned out well, because Andrew was nothing if not a perfectionist, so Renee trusted him with anything. 

The blonde woman walked into the shop, taking off her sunglasses and eyeing the shop with distaste. “Is he here?”

“Out soon.” Andrew grunted. 

Renee smiled, fluttering her eyelashes. “Ever been interested in getting a tattoo, ma’am? You must be the one encouraging our most loyal customer.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, as did the woman. “Interested? Sweetheart, I was cut off from my family because of my tattoos. Not classy enough for their tastes.”

It was fascinating to see Renee flustered: It wouldn’t show to anyone else, but Renee’s flush and slight purse of the lips made it incredibly obvious. Neil made his appearance, finally, and handed over the envelope with a hesitant smile. 

“Until next week.” He said. 

Andrew’s heart fluttered. “Sure. It’ll be good to get rid of you.”

His smile transformed into a grin. “Right.” He then let himself be shepherded off by the blonde woman, and Andrew told his heart to fucking quit it. He watched as Neil clambered into the Porsche, and wondered what he’d look like driving Andrew’s car. 

“Don’t be creepy.” Renee teased. Andrew shoved her again. 

*

“Will you tell me about your tattoos?” Neil piped up in the middle of what had to be their dozenth session. Andrew was always happy to sit in silence, but Neil’s inquisitive blue gaze no longer grated on his nerves. 

“They’re all weighted.” He said. “It’ll cost you.”

“I’ll tell you how I got my scars.” Neil offered. “Is that equal enough?”

Andrew nodded quickly. 

“I’ll be honest,” Neil admitted. “Dan and Matt directed me to you: You’d tattooed over Matt’s track-marks. And you—or Renee—have tattooed over your own. I figured you’d be my best shot.”

“Dan and Matt, huh.” Andrew knew Wymack’s adoptive daughter and her husband all too well, seeing as he’d dated Wymack’s son Kevin. He’d also covered that god-awful #2 tattoo on Kevin’s cheek, and redone Wymack’s old tribal tats. They were still close, to say the least. Kevin owed his mental stability to Andrew, even if they were well beyond their attraction for one another. Now he was more of an annoying conscience who occasionally popped up to tell Andrew everything he was doing wrong. “That’s how you know Allison.”

“Yeah.” Neil swallowed. “She was the one who suggested I tattoo over my scars, actually. She’s covered. You’d never guess it. She’s limited it to her chest, stomach, hips and upper thighs, but you can barely see her skin.” He smiled fondly. “It’s pretty amazing. Her artist was excellent.”

“Some rich, celebrity artist, I’m assuming.”

“Well, yeah. But she’ll probably come here next time. She hasn’t shut up about how gorgeous Renee is.” 

Andrew snorted. 

Neil craned his head to look at him: They were in an awkward position, what with Andrew tattooing his ribs. “So, what scars did you tattoo over?” 

He sighed, glancing at the clock. He didn’t have anyone else today, and it wasn’t like Andrew wanted Neil to leave. He rounded the tattoo table, dragging his chair with him, and sat down. He stripped the armbands off slowly: He saw these tattoos daily, but it was always different showing them to someone else for the first time. Under the lamp light, these tattoos were a little faded, the white lines visible between the gaps. Neil’s expression was unreadable. 

“They’re gorgeous.” He offered. 

Andrew knew they were. Renee had worked on the design for weeks, eventually coming up with a collage: Two pinky fingers interlocked, woven into a dead carcass of a tree, a broken noose curing into a tear-filled eye. The numberplate of his mother’s car was tattooed in a small gap, as was Aaron’s GPA, and the date of Nicky and Erik’s anniversary. Sometimes he truly was a sentimental fucker, and whilst he hated it, he also couldn’t help it. He didn’t need the memory jog: His recall was as perfect as ever. It was just important that the proof he’d overcome his hardships literally covered the remnants. 

“Had a rough childhood?” Neil hedged. 

“You can’t talk.” His fingertips brushed over the iron imprint on his shoulder: Electric passed between his fingertips, and he withdrew his hand quickly. “I was abused, across 13 different foster homes. Spent time in juvie, and time in a psych ward. It was over a decade ago,” He added. “I’ve moved on.”

“My father gave these to me about two years ago.” Neil gestured to his face. “He was responsible for most of my scars. My earliest was this:” He sat up, twisting around. There was a gruesome knife stab on his back, just above his right hip-bone. “I’d stayed out too late with the neighbouring kids, and just caught the tail end of dinner. He took his butter-knife and stabbed me. Mum sewed me up in the kitchen.” He laughed weakly. “That’s how most of them are, actually. If you ask about every single one, you’ll get bored.”

_You’d never bore me,_ Andrew would say, if he didn’t fervently protect himself from vulnerability. And this was vulnerability. Neil made him susceptible to feeling. 

“I hate you.” Andrew grunted, gritting his teeth. 

Neil smiled knowingly. “Better keep working.” 

He wanted to spread his palms over Neil’s shoulders and ask about every ditch and cliffside across his chest, his back, his neck. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Neil was his customer. Neil was trusting him with an important part of his healing process. Neil wasn’t likely to reciprocate his feelings, either. 

With the prick of a needle, the uneven pulses of his heart finally regained rhythm. He swallowed, and set back to work. 

“See you next week,” Neil smiled hesitantly, worried he’d overstepped.

“Next week.” Andrew confirmed. “Remember your after care.”

Neil had the audacity to wink. “Always do.” The door swung shut after him, and Andrew hated him. He _hated_ him. 

“I think someone likes you back.” Renee teased. 

Andrew simply turned on his heel and slammed the door of his studio behind him.

*

Soaked to the skin with rain, Neil came in on a Tuesday: The day after he was usually due in for the ever growing pieces to his puzzle. Andrew was in the middle of a client, but apparently Neil had patiently waited for him, leg bouncing, in the lobby. When Andrew sauntered out, the client right on his heels, he spotted Neil and almost lost his train of thought. 

“It’s a shame you’re so rude, Minyard.” Jackson, Johnson, whoever the fuck, pointed in his face. “Your work is good. If you weren’t such a jackass, and harbouring all these fuckin’ homos, maybe I’d come back!” 

“I’ll miss you dearly.” Andrew said flatly. “Get out of my store.” 

The man stormed out, sending Nicky into a gleeful spiral of laughter. Then he turned to Andrew’s most troublesome client. “Neil! I haven’t seen you in so long. You’re always here on Mondays, it’s such a shame!”

“Sure,” Neil hedged. He glanced at Andrew, then looked at his feet. “Can we reschedule? I’m sorry I cancelled on you yesterday.”

“My schedule’s out back.” Andrew lied. “Come on. I’ve got five minutes.”

Neil shuffled in after him, arms crossed. 

“How’s the tattoo healing?”

“Fine.” He snapped, then reflexively wincing. “Sorry. Just—a bit confused.”

When he said nothing, Andrew rolled his eyes. “About?”

Neil shrugged. “You sort of closed off after I brought everything up. I thought I—“ He looked up. “I thought I’d made a mistake. Encroached on your privacy.”

“You didn’t force me to talk, Neil.” Andrew said flatly. “It’s not your responsibility to keep things professional, either.”

“Are we?” Neil, the idiot, pestered. “Unprofessional?”

“We’re fine.” Andrew insisted. “Can’t lose my best paying customer.”

“Can’t finish a canvas half done.” Neil offered wryly. 

Andrew breathed out. He could get over this. Neil would be a good—acquaintance. And a good customer. And good company. And good looking. 

He could get over this crush. He’d be fine. 

*

Six months had passed by in the blink of an eye: They were almost done, with only a few gaps here and there to fill. His chest was a myriad of shapes and colours and lines and symbols. Andrew was proud of the work, but not of himself. 

He’d fallen for Neil. Hopelessly. 

First he’d just tried to ignore it. Then he’d staved it off as physical attraction. Then they’d grown infinitely closer, as Andrew showed him the tattoos across his shoulder blades, his ribs, hips, feet, even his thighs on that blistering June day. 

He knew more about Neil than anyone else, and it was the same in return. He’d told Neil about his purposeful trip to juvie, how he’d learned to tattoo with contraband needles, mastering the stick-n-poke by the time he was fourteen. Neil told him about his adventures with his mother.

I hate you, he said, over and over. 

I know, Neil replied, every fucking time. 

But he kept coming back, and giving Andrew heart palpitations, and envelopes of his father’s blood money that Andrew didn’t put into the register and instead stashed in a safe. To give back at the end, if Neil would let him. If he didn’t, he’d put it into the local homeless youth foundation. Andrew had never been homeless, even if he’d never truly felt like he belonged anywhere, but Neil had told him stories. 

It didn’t seem to matter how hard Andrew tried: Neil wormed his way into Andrew’s life. Andrew was already friendly with Dan and Matt; obviously he was close with Kevin and Renee. He found himself out for dinner or drinks or movies at their respective apartments, Reynolds often tagging along for the hell of it. 

The moment Andrew knew he was fucked was when the lights were dimmed. The movie wasn’t particularly interesting, but Andrew wasn’t having the best of days already: Shitty customers, bad coffee, too many people carelessly brushing by him as he walked to work, having been woken up by that brand of nightmares. 

Neil was curled into a ball next to him with a distant gaze. Andrew simply stared, waiting for him to return to consciousness. When Neil snapped out of it, he smiled sheepishly. 

“Dan and Matt let me stay on this couch.” Neil reminisced. “When they’d hired me to work at their cafe, they eventually found out I had no address. I think this was the first home I’d ever had.”

“Sap.” Andrew muttered. Neil jostled his shoulder teasingly. 

“One hell of a comfy couch, though.” He offered. Andrew hummed with agreement, letting himself sink into the worn cushions. 

And if he let a sleepy Neil’s head droop onto his shoulder, he didn’t dwell on it.   
*

Andrew’s hands were trembling slightly, as Neil’s underwear briefs slipped beneath his hipbone to expose a long curve of a knife slice. 

“Andrew?” 

He grit his teeth. “It’s nothing.”

Neil sat up, hand hesitating over Andrew’s wrist. He hadn’t started needling yet. “It doesn’t take a liar to know you’re bullshitting.”

Andrew leaned back in his chair: He’d upgraded from a stool. It was amazing. “What do you think is wrong, Josten?”

“Avoidance, so it’s something you don’t want to disclose about yourself.” Neil arched his eyebrow. “I know you better than you think I do.”

“Professionalism, Neil.” He warned. Neil grinned. 

“Right. Yes, of course. Mr Minyard, is there something upsetting you? I could reschedule the appointment for another day.”

Something about him calling Andrew ‘Mr Minyard’ really sent him up the goddamned fucking wall. He shook his head. “Let’s just finish this without being problematic, yes?”

Neil laid back down with a quiet smile. He’d grown so used to the pain of needling that he almost relaxed when the ink was being sunk into his skin. This knife wound was distorted with make-shift stitches. Neil said his mother had given him a bottle of vodka and sewn it shut with floss and a sewing needle. 

It was the perfect shape for a foxtail, so that was what Andrew did. His body was already littered with kitsunes and their nine tails. Neil liked their story, and saw it in himself. 

They were quiet for almost two hours, in which Andrew refused to think. Refused to look. It was easy to get lost in the tattooing process, and so he merely concentrated on mastering the curvature of his skin, and definitely ignoring the adorable mole just above his hipbone. And really, fuck him for making him characterise a mole as adorable. Jackass. Andrew fucking hated him. 

He sealed the tattoo and helped Neil onto his back. “You’ll need to keep as straight as possible to stop the tattoo from creasing. Sleeping on your back, standing instead of sitting. Only for the next 24 to 48 hours.” 

“Straight as possible.” Neil snorted. “Not exactly something that comes easily.”

Andrew’s ears burned. “You’re such a fucking issue, Josten.”

Neil looked at him. “I didn’t realise. I thought you hated me.” 

“I do.” Andrew swallowed. “I’ve spent the last six months stabbing every inch of your body.”

Neil laughed, and it was a beautiful thing. “But?”

He curled his hands into fists. “But it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t blow you.”

Despite his scars, the blush across his cheeks and neck was fascinating. “Oh.”

Andrew stood aside to let him leave. “Surely you’d have noticed that by now.”

His flush was reddening, the tips of his ears and collarbones joining in. “I—no. I’m not very good with this kind of thing.” He wrung his fingers out, twisting and gripping with unease.

Andrew’s eagerness had gotten the better of him: He was so unfamiliar with this sense of companionship with someone else that he forgot he had appointments and plans with this person, for a service they were still (sort of) paying for. 

_Fuck._

Andrew felt his stomach knotting itself in a similar way. “I didn’t mean to bypass professionalism. I’ll pass your appointments onto Renee. Or you can finish somewhere else.”

“No. No.” Neil insisted. “It’s fine. I want you to keep going.” He flushed. “I’ve never—felt like this. With anyone.”

Andrew refused to let his heart flutter like it wanted to. “Like what?”

Neil scowled. “Oh, fuck off, Andrew. You know.” 

He stepped closer to Neil, with his gorgeously lithe body and the unabashedly beautiful scars and tattoos. Neil may have wanted them covered up, but Andrew liked the way they were—enhanced. He carefully pinched Neil’s chin between his forefinger and thumb, tilting his head down. “Do I?” 

Neil hiccupped slightly with the newfound proximity. “You’re an asshole.”

“So many clients have told me.” Andrew risked a hand on Neil’s neck, and felt the fluttering of his pulse. Or was it Andrew’s? He had no idea. “I was wondering when you’d realise.”

“Like I said.” He murmured. “I’m not very good with these things.” He looked at Andrew through his lowered lashes, and that sent warmth straight to Andrew’s gut. Fuck. “Kiss me?” 

Andrew stepped back, and Neil’s body trembled with disappointment. He let one corner of his lips curl upwards in a rare smile: Neil’s fingertips traced it. “Let me treat you to dinner, first.”

“Such an asshole.” He reiterated warmly. “Call me.”

Andrew saluted his exit, before dropping into his chair and smothering the twitching of his lips. What was it called, this feeling in his chest? It was something so rare, so intangible to Andrew, something that he’d never truly experienced, and was vehemently jealous of the rest of the population for being able to experience it regularly. 

Oh, yes. 

Hope.

**Author's Note:**

> eh i took a few character liberties in this one lol

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [cover me (the enchanted ink remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21042956) by [lolainslackss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolainslackss/pseuds/lolainslackss)




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